


A Whole Strip of Condoms

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ass to Mouth, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, Awkward Derek Hale, Awkward Family Dinners, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hotdogging, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marking, Prostitution, Rimming, Sex for Favors, Unicorns, Virgin Stiles, hot dogging, sort of, unicorn character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow Stiles has managed to survive the horrors of Beacon Hills until the ripe old age of twenty.  He's still a virgin, of course, because there hasn't really been time between school, work, and running for his life to take care of that pesky little problem.</p><p>Derek Hale — also a Beacon Hills Survivor — has sadly attained lonely bachelor status.  In between running for <i>his</i> life, researching the latest threats to the town with his good buddy Stiles, and lingering nightmares of the outcomes of his past relationships, he hasn't exactly been on the lookout for anyone new since Braeden.</p><p>Stiles feels the crushing weight of his family's debt; Derek has piles of money.  Derek needs to get laid; Stiles is a willing and eager virgin.  It's a match made in... well.  <i>Beacon Hills.</i>  Eesh.</p><p>Their odd little friendship has survived death threats, possession, and all manner of things that go bump in the night.  Surely it'll survive a friends with benefits arrangement.  </p><p>Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, same deal as with my other multi-chap fics. Twice a week updates. Since it's almost Friday for me, the schedule for this one will be Monday and Thursday until it's complete.
> 
> Also, in case it wasn't obvious, this is incredibly self indulgent. I'm playing fast and loose with the things that get in the way of my "plot" (lol, omg, plot, hahahahaha), and basically this is just a fun little trip into fun porn for me. Enjoy!
> 
>  **Edited to add:** If you made it through the summary, the tags, and the first part of these notes and you are somehow STILL expecting this to be a deeply involved, plotty fic, oh wow. You are gonna be so disappointed.

"What." Derek scowls at the strip of condoms that dangle in front of his face, mood darkening by the second. Shifting his glare to the idiot holding the condoms, Derek finishes that thought. "The fuck."

"Dude, they're condoms." Stiles looks at Derek like he's mildly worried for Derek's mental health, which is just… no.

"I know what they _are_ , Stiles. Why are you giving them to me?" Derek's soft growl doesn't even make Stiles flinch, which is a shame. He can't even properly threaten spastic humans any more. What is his life?

Stiles shoves a hand through his hair before hopping over the back of the couch, landing rather gracelessly on Derek's shins and making them both hiss with pain. After he finishes writhing his way off Derek's legs, Stiles catches his breath and croaks, "Look, man, I'm just worried about you. You're a walking time bomb, okay? You need to get _laid._ I mean, it's pretty obvious your hand just isn't cutting it anymore, you know? So… take those and like, _use_ them. Please? For all our sakes."

Derek looks down at the condoms, feeling his cheeks and the tips of his ears going hot with a blush. Plucking up the strip between his thumb and his forefinger, he flicks them back at Stiles. "If I find myself in a situation where I need condoms, I'm perfectly capable of providing my own. Your _concern_ is touching," he sneers, "but I think I'm good."

Stiles sighs, looking down at the condoms where they're spread across his lap — Stiles apparently has quite an inflated sense of Derek's refractory period, judging by just how very _long_ the strip is — and then looks back up at Derek, his eyes dark and serious. "Hey, I'm not… this isn't a joke, okay? I'm not pranking you or making fun of you. I'm genuinely worried about you, dude. Everyone's off doing their own thing now, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only person who's been over here in the last two weeks. I just… I want you to be okay."

Something bitter and dark twists its way through Derek, an emotion he doesn't want to look at too closely. Instead, he picks at a tiny imperfection in his jeans until it frays before he finally trusts himself enough to speak. "Sex isn't always the answer, Stiles." 

In Derek's experience, sex is _never_ the answer, unless the question was, _how can you fuck up your life more than you already have?_

Stiles shrugs. "I know, but it doesn't hurt. And actually, it _shouldn't_ hurt. If it does, you're doing it wrong." A fleeting grin touches Stiles' mouth before he half-heartedly punches Derek's shoulder. "Get back out there, big guy. At least try, you know?"

Derek scrubs at the back of his neck with bitten-off fingernails, relishing the sharp pain as they scratch the sensitive skin before the itch of healing kicks in. "Yeah, right. My track history isn't so great." So much for not letting his past come tumbling out of his mouth. Giving up with a mental sigh, Derek holds up his fingers, ticking them off one by one. "The murdering psychopathic hunter, the murdering psychopathic druid, and the hit woman assassin whose psychoses are still to be determined? I mean, how do you follow that up?"

Having the grace to wince at that, Stiles coughs out a weak laugh and says, "Hey, at least Braeden only killed people she was paid to kill. Plus, well, they were all smoking hot." 

Giving in to a moment of vulnerability, Derek looks up at Stiles through the safety of his eyelashes and says, "I've tried. I just… I can't anymore. Not with someone I don't trust. I can't let down my guard enough."

"What about someone you _do_ trust?"

Sinking back into the cushions of the couch, Derek glares at the television. It's playing some random sitcom at a low volume, the visual representation of white noise. "Yeah, well, that's not exactly an option. One's my sister, one's my alpha, and the other's…" Derek picks at that spot on his jeans again, head ducking instinctively as he mutters, "...you."

"So, I guess that's a no to the sibling incest kink, huh?"

Apparently it's still possible to shut Stiles up with the judicious application of a sofa cushion.

~*~

"Yeah, so, I've found nothing in either of the bestiaries or my best sources on the internet that even _alludes_ to the possibility of unicorns being real, but… whoa."

The way Stiles cuts himself off mid-ramble, added to the skip-jump of his heartbeat, has Derek sitting up from where he's poring over a 19th century journal written in German. "What?"

"Jesus Christ," Stiles huffs, mostly under his breath, but… _werewolf_. 

Derek no longer even apologizes for hearing things Stiles would probably rather he didn't, and he's pretty sure Stiles has forgotten what it was like to ever have true privacy. 

Closing the journal on a sheet of notepaper to mark his place, Derek hefts himself to his feet and goes to see what it is that's got Stiles thrown for a loop. He's gone nearly speechless. For Stiles, that's one hell of a mental whammy. 

As soon as he's close enough, Derek leans over Stiles, shamelessly reading over his shoulder. It's not… anything like what he expected. Nothing about unicorns or pegasi. There's not even a nice, pastoral picture of horses grazing in a field. No, instead it's a lurid looking webpage that has a flashing box offering cash for virgins. 

"What." Derek really doesn't want to hear Stiles rant — again — about his lack of verbal punctuation, but seriously. This is a level of what the fuck that even knowing _Stiles Stilinski_ for four years couldn't have prepared Derek for. 

Stiles' next breath is shuddery and liquid-sounding, so Derek is at least comforted to know that Stiles hadn't _meant_ to be on that webpage. "It's not… I was just… you know, the myths. About virgins. And I forgot to fucking turn on incognito mode, so apparently all my different search strings for unicorns and maidens and virgins made Google think I was looking or something… fuck. I dunno, man." Stiles' fingers jump to the trackpad on his laptop, and he's about to touch it when his fingers sort of spasm a little. "But shit. I mean. A thousand dollars."

"What?" Derek can feel his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows draw together hard enough to cramp. "Stiles. _Stiles._ You can't seriously be thinking about this. Stiles!"

Stiles jerks, almost topples the chair, and then rights himself with a shaky laugh. "What? No, I mean. Of course not. Not really. But… shit, man. A thousand fucking bucks, just to have _sex_. Here I've always thought I couldn't _pay_ someone to fuck me. Apparently I was just a little backward on that equation."

"Stiles…" Derek hates this. Hates that note in Stiles' voice, part mocking deprecation, part hopelessness. He's barely twenty and the kid's already given up on having any sort of normal life. Guilt hangs heavy on Derek's shoulders because he knows it's a lot his fault. _Their_ fault. The pack, the supernatural bullshit, all of it. Without all this eating up nearly every spare minute of Stiles' day, he'd probably have all the significant others he could ever want. But there's not exactly an overabundance of sane singles in their circle of acquaintances.

"Hey, man, whatever. No way I could pull off a Julia Roberts, right?" Stiles coughs out a fake laugh and closes out the webpage, then slams the entire laptop shut like that action will do anything to erase that damn flashing ad from either of their memories. 

Spinning around, Stiles applies pressure to Derek's chest until he remembers himself and steps back. When he has room to stand, Stiles does, and then immediately starts to pace. "Anyway," he says, all fluttery with nervous energy, "I got nothin'. You?"

Jolted back to their supernatural quandary du jour, Derek groans and scrubs a hand over his face, itching through the scruff that's slightly overgrown since he hasn't taken the time to properly trim it in a few days. "Nothing yet, but it's slow going. Bad handwriting and ancient idioms do not make for light reading."

Stiles claps him on the shoulder, and it's a gesture of solidarity he's shared countless times, but this time Derek feels the heat of his hand burning through the thin cotton of his t shirt. "We'll figure it out, big guy. It may just be a goat or something. Stranger things have happened."

Since Stiles is too filled with nervous energy, too wired to quietly research together, Derek grabs the journal he was reading and tilts his head toward the door. "I'll take this back with me. Maybe I'll sleep with it under my pillow or something. Eventually osmosis has to work, right?"

He'd been hoping to startle a laugh out of Stiles, but instead he just gets a spaced-out look and a jagged nod along with a distracted, "Right. Yeah, of course."

Derek looks down at the journal, turning it over and over in his hands before he glances back up at Stiles and says, softly, "Hey."

Stiles jumps, twitchy as hell. "Uh?"

"Look, I know… things have been a little tight for you and your dad, but that?" he gestured to the laptop, which might as well have been a ticking time bomb for the way they were both acting around it now. "Don't… don't do _that_ , okay?"

A muscle leaps in Stiles' jaw as he glares down at where he's digging restlessly at a tiny hole in his t shirt. "Yeah, okay."

"Stiles—"

"I won't. Okay? Just… don't worry about it. It's not like I'd be able to look my dad in the eye again anyway, right? And shit, if he found out? God, just. No. So don't. Don't worry about it."

But of course, as these things happen, it's all Derek _does_ worry about for the rest of the night and into the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

"So. Unicorns. Apparently fucking real. And all those 'drawn to virgins' stories?! _Why do they never say that they're drawn to virgins to_ kill _them?_ " Stiles all but shrieks, still wracked by fine tremors after coming far too close to being gored by a unicorn.

It didn't help, at all, that the wolves' claws had been ineffective against the diamond-tough hide of the unicorn, either. The only thing that had frightened the beast off its path toward Stiles had been Scott literally leaping in front of it. The unicorn had reared up with a screaming sort of whinny and galloped off into the deepest parts of the Preserve. And since the stupid creature had no discernible scent, Isaac and Liam had basically run in circles before giving up the search.

"Why are you still a fucking virgin, Stiles? Jesus, it can't be _that_ difficult to pick up a drunken stranger at Jungle these days."

"Shut up, Isaac," Derek growls, keeping pressure on a long gouge in his side as his skin reknits itself. "Just shut up. It's not Stiles' fault this thing is after him. So stop _blaming_ him for it and start thinking of ideas." Then, feeling a bit wrong-footed, he flicks a glance at Scott and demurs to the alpha of the group with a slight tilt of his head.

"He's right," Scott says, shoulders thrown back while he fixes a hard look on Isaac. "And I'd like to think no one in this pack would take advantage of someone in a drunken state, so let's not put that on the table."

"Mason would be happy to help Stiles—"

The shout of "No!" comes from every other person in the clearing, making Liam cringe a bit, his eyes flaring yellow in submission.

Still breathing heavily, Stiles approaches Derek and shoves his hand out of the way. "We need to clean that up. What the fuck were you thinking, idiot? You can't just throw yourself at a mindless, rampaging animal like that." Bending closer, Stiles bites his lip and prods at the healing edge of the wound.

Hissing at the pain that lances through him, Derek smacks his hand away with a grumble. "You going to shout at Scott for doing the same thing?"

"Maybe I will!"

But when they look up, the rest of the pack is gone.

Derek draws in a breath and lets it out on a tired sigh. "Come on, then. Excitement's over for tonight. I'm taking you home."

"I have my Jeep." Stiles' protest is half-hearted at best. From the look in his eyes, he's still extremely shaken up by tonight's events.

"And there's still a mindless, rampaging animal after your blood. I know you can take care of yourself," he says to soothe any ruffled feathers, "and I realize there's not much we can do against it anyway until we know more about its weaknesses. But I'd sleep a lot better tonight if I know you're safe. I'm going with you to make sure you don't get attacked again, and then you're going to call me or Scott before you go anywhere so one of us is with you at all times until the threat is gone."

Stiles slowly collapses forward until his head is resting against Derek's chest, the fight drained out of him. "It isn't going to help me for you idiots to get yourselves hurt. You're _my_ pack too, you know. Just because I'm the squishy human doesn't mean it won't hurt me to lose you guys."

Derek allows him a moment to rest, lets the words settle on both of them before he attempts to lighten the mood. "You know I'm allergic to emotion. Why'd you have to go and say something like that?"

"Yeah, yeah." Stiles pats his chest, then pushes himself upright again with a quirk of a grin. "Under that rock hard exterior there's nothing but fluff, big guy. Your secret's out."

Derek lets Stiles drive them in the Jeep — he can always come back later for the Camaro — and since the radio is the latest victim of the Jeep's advanced age, there's nothing to distract from the sound of the road under the tires.

"You know, back… back when you were in high school…"

Stiles, slouched at the wheel, steering with one hand while his opposite elbow is propped against his door, throws Derek a questioning glance. "What about it?"

"I don't know. I guess I thought you and Malia—"

"Hah! Uh, dude. No. I mean." Stiles takes his hand off the wheel, flailing it a bit before grabbing at it again when the Jeep tries to cut to the right. "Look. She went feral when she was eight. And then we found her. I mean, maybe there was a lot of personal growth and development in those nine years, but it would have been… no." Stiles looks uncomfortable for a moment, biting his lip. "She _slept_ with me a lot, that year. But that's all it ever was: sleeping. Just the comfort of pack, I guess."

Derek nods, guilt a sour knot in his stomach. "I know it's our fault."

"Malia?"

"No, you. If it weren't for the pack. If it weren't for everything the pack brings with it, you would be able to—"

"Oh my god, shut up." 

Derek rears back at the fury in Stiles' tone, but does as bid. Of course, now he's got Stiles worked up, so he's going to get a piece of that convoluted mind whether he wants it or not, apparently.

"If it weren't for the pack, I'd be dead a thousand times over. So would my dad. And yeah, I'd probably have missed out on some of it, but come _on_ , Derek. This is Beacon Hills. The only way to stay safe in this hell hole is to actually be _aware_ of what's coming for you so you can fight it. Otherwise, you're toast. How many more innocent civilians do we need to bury before you get that through your head?" Stiles thumps the wheel with his fist, then makes soothing noises at the Jeep when a dull clanking sound immediately starts up under the engine. "Besides," he adds quietly, "it's _my_ fault Scott's a werewolf. So me being involved? That's on me. Not on anyone else. I make my own choices. Always have."

Derek watches him for a long moment, watches how his eyes reflect the light of passing cars, then turns his attention to the dark night around them, leaning his head on the window as the Preserve bleeds away to houses and businesses.

~*~

Before Derek even makes it through Stiles' window two days later, he feels gut punched by the emotions Stiles is leaking everywhere. Anger, frustration, and guilt are side notes to the hopelessness that is so thick Derek thinks he's going to choke on it.

"Stiles!" he shouts, foot catching on the windowsill so he tumbles into the room in a graceless heap before leaping up, claws and fangs out. He retracts them again once he knows Stiles is alone, then turn towards Stiles who's seated at his desk, defeat in every line of his slumped figure. "What happened?" Cocking his head, Derek lets his hearing extend but Stiles' heartbeat is the only other he hears. "Shit. Is it your dad?"

Stiles brings his hands to his face, wiping at it before he turns to face Derek. Even with the quick attention, his eyes are bloodshot, dull with pain. His eyelashes are still dry on top, but the lower edges look damp, clumped together even as he tries on a wobbly smile. "Hey, Derek." Stiles' voice sounds dead, like pulling the words out took the last of his energy. "Can we... rain check this? I just. I can't. Not tonight."

Derek runs through his mental calendar. It's not either of the big two mental health days Stiles takes every year — the anniversary of Claudia Stilinski's death and her birthday respectively — and Allison died in the late fall, so... This is something else. 

"Stiles." Derek approaches slowly, hands stretched out in front of him like he's dealing with a wounded animal. "Hey. No research tonight. But I need you to tell me what's wrong. Your dad...?"

"He's fine." Stiles looks down at his hands, where he's crumpling what looks like a form letter. "Working the overnight shift. You literally just missed him."

"Okay so..." Derek sits on the edge of the bed closest to Stiles, allowing their knees to bump gently. "Want me to call Scott? Is it a girl? A guy? Someone whose throat I can rip out?"

Stiles huffs a small, sad laugh. "Nah, dude. It's... I guess it's good news, actually." Closing his eyes, he holds out the crumpled letter.

Taking it carefully, Derek scans the letter, his eyes widening with shock and second-hand excitement. "CalTech?! Stiles, that's—"

"Impossible. Amazingly, wonderfully impossible. Keep reading."

Derek's forehead wrinkles in consternation as he does as bid. The only thing he can see is... Oh. No financial aid available. "Jesus, Stiles. You can't let this stop you. If you talk to your dad—"

"He'll cash in his retirement, get a second — or third, probably — mortgage on the house. He'll take extra shifts and work himself to death and that's not... No. I won't let him do that." Stiles looks up, pins Derek with a ferocious glare. "He can't know about this. Not ever. I'll keep going to Beacon Hills University. It'll be fine."

"A degree from BHU is worth less than the cheap computer paper it's printed on. Dammit, Stiles, if you're ever going to let me help you, do it now." Derek tugs at his hair, familiar frustration boiling in his gut. Stiles is too fucking _proud_ sometimes. It isn't like Derek's doing anything with his money besides watching it grow through careful investments.

"No. We've talked about this! I'm not taking a loan from you."

"It doesn't have to be a loan!" And then, as he's glancing around the room, Derek's eyes catch on Stiles' laptop and the idea hits him like a freight train to the chest. His entire body feeling numb with shock, Derek opens his mouth and lets the offer pour out. "I'll pay you fifty thousand dollars to help me use those condoms."

The words hang in the air for a long, tense moment before Stiles' laughter shatters the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible person, I know. :D Next chapter: Thursday!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dizzilytwirling, I added a little Easter egg for you. :D

Stiles laughs so hard he ends up with tear tracks on his cheeks, and he can barely make it across the room to where Derek is standing, stiff and uncomfortable at Stiles' reaction. But when Stiles throws his arms around Derek, it's not hard to melt into the — slightly shaky from all the continued laughing — 'Stilinski manly hug' Stiles pulls him into. Derek doesn't get them often, but he enjoys them when he does. They're warm and comforting, even when Stiles' shoulder is knocking into his cheek.

"Oh man," Stiles says, pulling back and wiping at his face. "Holy shit. Dude, that was _awesome_. I really appreciate it. I mean, I know you're not one for humoring us — or humor of any sort," he smiles to cut the sharp edges off that statement, "but when you do, you sure go all out. And, yeah, I needed the stress relief, so…"

Derek is already nodding his head, ready to let it go and allow Stiles to believe that the offer had just been a joke. But… then again… "You know," he says, forcing himself to meet Stiles' gaze, "it would solve more problems than just this." He holds up the letter from CalTech, drawing Stiles' gaze to it and rather effectively cutting off his random giggles.

"What… Derek, come on, man. You're taking the joke a little far, don't you think?" A muscle leaps in Stiles' jaw when he clenches his teeth, anger flashing briefly in his gaze before he snatches his acceptance letter. "It's not funny anymore, okay? Now you're just making fun."

"No!" Grabbing Stiles' shoulders, he holds him in place, waiting for Stiles to look at him. "It's not a joke, Stiles. It was _never_ a joke." Dropping his hands, he steps back and shoves them in his pockets, swamped once again with that odd, nerveless feeling. His stomach swoops sickeningly when he says, "You told me weeks ago that I needed to get laid. You're… basically the only person I'd be comfortable enough with to… do that."

Stiles sneers, and it _hurts_. "Oh, come on. You can't even say it."

Crossing his arms, Derek glares back. "To _fuck_. Have sex with. There, is that good enough for you?"

"Uh huh. And tell me again when you had your big gay crisis? Because I seem to remember you being straighter than the proverbial board." 

Derek's jaw drops, and he can do nothing but stare for a long moment. "Are you… are you fucking serious right now? Stiles, do you _remember_ my exes?"

"Yep." Stiles holds up his hand and starts ticking names off. "Paige. Kate. Mrs Blake… err, Julia, whatever her name really was. And Braeden." 

"David," Derek responds, holding up his own hand. "Josh. Patrick. Kwon." Lowering his hand, he adds, "I could go on, but honestly I didn't know most of their names."

Stiles' face creases with confusion. "What? Who?" 

"Remember those six years I was gone?" Derek shrugs and looks to the side. "I did a lot of…"

"People, apparently."

Derek rolls his eyes. "Yeah, fine, I drowned my sorrows in people instead of alcohol, okay? No one got hurt, everyone left happy. I'm not ashamed of what I did, or who I did it with, but that doesn't mean it was a completely healthy response to what happened… here."

Stiles' eyes go soft, like they always do when Derek references his family, no matter how vaguely. It would piss him off coming from anyone else, but Stiles has lost family too. He knows, at least a bit, what it's like. Coming from him, it's empathy, not pity, and that makes all the difference.

"Okay," Stiles says, his voice quiet. "Leaving aside for the moment that you have no gender preferences — which would have been nice to know when the pack was trying to set you up last year—"

"No. That shit show needed _ending_ , not encouraging. Ugh, what a mess." And it had been. It had ended in tears on the part of his dates because the pack had stopped _informing him_ that they were setting him up, instead letting him believe the women they'd been setting him up with were accosting him without encouragement. It had… not ended well.

"Yeah, okay, whatever. It was a good idea, you're just a spoil sport who doesn't want to have joy in his life. That Halliwell lady made the best muffins, dude." 

Derek remembers the muffins; they weren't _that_ good. Too much flaxseed.

"Anyway, steering the conversation back around to what we're here for…" Stiles breathes deep before letting it out in a long sigh. "I just think this is really coming out of left field. I mean, you've never shown the least amount of interest before, so why now? Just because you're feeling charitable?"

"It has nothing to do with charity, Stiles! I—" Frustration rolls through Derek, who shoves his hands through his hair, beginning to pace. "You were thinking about it, the other day. That website."

"I wasn't—"

"Don't fucking lie. Not to me." Derek points a finger at him, nostrils flaring as guilt trickles off Stiles. "You _were_. You were thinking about selling yourself for a thousand dollars. How is this any worse?"

"How? Okay, first? You offered me _fifty grand_ , Derek."

"Okay, but I mean, obviously I value you more than some random internet troll. Plus, if you remember, it was for… more than once." Embarrassment floods Derek at that admission.

"Dude, you aren't even attracted to me. How are you planning to get it up once, much less ten times?"

"Ten?"

"Well, that's how many condoms I bought you." Stiles shrugs, looking as uncomfortable as Derek feels.

"Stiles, I'm not _un_ attracted to you. I just. When we met, you were sixteen. I got used to… _not_ looking at you like that." Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Derek lets slip the last of his plan. "Plus, if we do this, it should solve the problem of your unicorn stalker."

Stiles' shoulders stiffen, his face goes blotchy, and his eyes are nearly spitting sparks at Derek. "Seriously? _Seriously?!_ I can't fucking believe you. Get the fuck out of my house."

"What? Stiles, whoa." Derek holds up his hands, eyes wide as he tries to figure out where he went wrong. "Tell me what's going on in your head, because—"

"You fucker!" Stiles stomps forward, fists clenched, and swings wildly, only narrowly missing Derek as he ducks out of the way. "You thought, what? You'd take pity on the poor, squishy human? If I wouldn't go 'take advantage of some drunk at Jungle,' you'd come here and throw yourself on the sword? Take one for the team? Did you and Isaac plan this?"

"No! God! I didn't… Jesus, Stiles. Do you really think I'd do that?" Derek's shoulders slump as he turns toward the window, ready to leave Stiles to his anger. 

"Then why? Tell me the damn truth, Derek. Why this? Why now?"

Derek pauses with one leg flung over the sill. Banging his forehead against the lowest pane of the opened window, he thinks about his answer. "I see that stupid rolled-up strip of condoms every day on my dresser when I'm getting dressed. And I've thought about it. Thought about just _finding_ someone. A month ago, I would never have proposed this. You're right about that. But I wouldn't have suggested it because I wouldn't have wanted to damage our friendship. I had nothing to offer you then, nothing that would make a relationship with me worthwhile. I'm… the worst person to get involved with ever. At least in this town."

"Derek…" Stiles sounds exhausted. With the emotional roller coaster he's been riding all night, he probably is. 

"But now," Derek plows on, gritting his teeth and trying not to see Stiles' reflection through the glass. "Now I have this. It won't hurt our friendship because it'll be mutually beneficial. We'll each be getting something out of it. A future for you and… stress relief or whatever for me."

"Pretty sure I'd be getting stress relief too."

Hearing the returning humor in Stiles' tone, Derek slowly turns back around to see Stiles with one hand pressed to his forehead, massaging his temples. 

"I don't want your money, Derek."

"Then we won't do this. It wasn't an ultimatum, Stiles. It was a suggestion. If you don't want to do it, if it's that repellent to you, we won't. Just, forget I said anything."

"I didn't say it wasn't an attractive offer," Stiles says, making an up and down gesture at Derek. "I just think the timing is suspect and the money is, like..." He makes a brain exploding sound, fingers spread from his scalp. 

"It's a lot, I know that. But my thought was that, you know, with ten condoms… that's only five thousand per night, or whatever. And—" 

"Dude, I'm not a prostitute! The first hint that I'm not is that you could totally get one of those for way less than what you're proposing to pay."

Derek can feel heat creeping into his cheeks and ears. Hunching his shoulders, he said, "I didn't say you were a prostitute. I'm, ugh. You know I've talked more tonight than in the last month?"

"I noticed, dude. I'm so proud."

"I just thought, you know, I could have my accountant set it up like a scholarship. You would never have to worry about your dad finding out and… I wouldn't have to worry that I was fucking up _us_. Because at the end of the day, you'd be going off to Pasadena, and I'd still be here. And we'd still be pack, and it wouldn't be horribly uncomfortable when you graduate and move back." And Derek knows he'd do that. Stiles is as bound to Beacon Hills as the rest of the pack. The land will always draw them back. He tries to ignore that it might be the Nemeton's influence.

There's a long moment of charged silence from Stiles. Derek is about to leave when Stiles says, his voice croaky, "Okay. I'm not agreeing to it. Not tonight. There's been too much going on; I'm emotionally compromised. But."

Derek stops and looks up, hopeful. "But?"

"But I'll think about. _Really_ think about it. But maybe, before either of us really seriously considers this, we need to know if we can even do it. I mean, if we're physically compatible." Stiles looks a little flustered after saying that, making Derek roll his eyes.

"So what do you suggest?"

Stiles edges forward until he's close enough for his knee to bump the one of Derek's that's still inside the room. Leaning down, he brings one shaking hand up to cup Derek's cheek, and his breath hiccups against Derek's lips. "Uh, you know. A kiss?"

Pushing Stiles backward a little, Derek pulls himself back into the room and straightens to his full height. For the first time in years, he feels the fluttering of nerves in the pit of his stomach as he leans toward Stiles, whose eyes are Bambi-huge in his pale face. The knowledge that he isn't the only one who's nervous makes Derek settle a little, and he's able to smile softly as he murmurs, "Relax, baby. I promise I'll only put in the tip."

That startles a burst of laughter from Stiles, and then they're there, smiling mouths pressed together, opening against one another. It's not the best kiss ever, but this is Stiles. This is the human who's crawled under his skin and made a place for himself in Derek's life. The boy who'd challenged and infuriated him and who continues, years later, to push him to be the best version of himself possible. 

He relaxes into the moment, captures Stiles' giggles with his tongue, and enjoys himself. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, allowing his eyelids to flutter closed as he uses this opportunity to discover if he really is capable of carrying out his offer. 

The jolt of lust he feels when Stiles gathers himself enough to swipe his tongue over Derek's top lip surprises him. Digging his fingers into Stiles' hair, he feels his breath catch as he realizes… Yeah. He might even be disappointed if Stiles rejects his proposal.

Well, he'll just have to use this moment to convince Stiles _not_ to reject him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo hoo, progress! Let's be real, it's not going to take much convincing. :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm eventually going to have to go back through this fic and add things like TRANSITIONS. *face palm* This writing thing, how does it work?

"Stop." Stiles' hand closes over Derek's wrist, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he stares across the Main Street Diner's faded linoleum table.

Derek drops the little container of sugar and sweetener packets like it's treated with wolfsbane and sits back in his side of the booth, teeth gritting as the vinyl seat cover under his ass squeaks. He looks out the plate glass window at the strip mall across the street, avoiding Stiles' gaze.

It's been three days since Derek made his offer, but that's not why he's uncomfortable. He'd had a chance to get over that not twelve hours after their kiss. After all, Stiles is still under the pack's version of house arrest until they figure out what to do with the unicorn that's after his blood, and Derek's the only pack member without a steady job who has the ability to stick to Stiles like glue.

No, Derek's feeling guilty, and it's not sitting well on his shoulders. Shifting restlessly, he reaches for the napkin folded under his silverware, scattering the fork and knife so that they clatter across the table. He looks up, sees that Stiles is still looking at him, the suspicion on his face morphing into something more like horror.

"Nothing's wrong!" he says quickly.

"You know, you say that," Stiles says, picking up Derek's fork and pointing the tines at him. "And ordinarily, I'd believe you. Because you're not as stupid as you once were. But ordinarily I'd also say you don't have a nervous tic. And yet…" He stares pointedly at where Derek's fingers are shredding the paper napkin. 

Derek stops immediately, but that just makes Stiles smile grimly.

"Or actually, to be perfectly honest, I'd have said your nervous tic is back flipping out of a room. Or frog leaping down stairs. The fact that you're still sitting here is a minor miracle, I think." Stiles stares at him, mouth set in a thin line. "Spill."

Derek slouches down in his seat, dragging a hand over his face. "It's nothing important—"

"I swear to god, Hale, I will slice your throat with this butter knife."

Derek cocks one eyebrow at Stiles, whose face is flushed a splotchy red, his eyes sparking with irritation. It's… really fucking attractive actually, and Derek can't help but wonder if that's what he'd look like spread out and eager on Derek's bed. He shifts in his seat, the squeaking vinyl the sad soundtrack of his wayward thoughts. 

"Is this about the unicorn?" Stiles asks, lowering his voice to a murmur that Derek can still clearly hear.

"No. I—shit. Okay." Derek scratches at his scruff, gaze locked on the bridge of Stiles' nose to give the appearance of eye contact. Bracing for an explosion, he says in a rush, "I saw my lawyer today."

Stiles just blinks at him, uncomprehending. "Pretty sure our little horny buddy isn't going to care if you sue it, dude."

"What? No." Now it's Derek's turn to be irritated. "I told you, this has nothing to do with the unicorn."

"Oh." Stiles straightens in his seat, bracing his elbows on the table as he leans toward Derek. "Who are you suing then?"

Derek scowls just as the waitress appears with their order. He waits until she's dropped off their food and disappeared again before he says, "You know, lawyers are for more than suing people, Stiles. Wills, probate, trusts… scholarships."

Stiles, who was in the process of picking the tomato off his burger, drops his toasted bun back to his plate and purses his lips. "I told you I wanted to think about that."

"Well, yeah, but I had to talk to him about some other stuff, and I get billed by the hour. So." Derek shrugs, scowling down at his overdone steak and stabbing it with his extra fork. "There are _things_ that have to be done to make what we talked about happen. It's not as simple as going to the bank."

"Things? What things?"

"Jesus, Stiles, I don't fucking know. I'm not a tax attorney!" Derek tosses his silverware onto his plate and huffs. "Forms and shit, I guess. But it takes time, and I thought, you know. If you didn't..." He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, already done with this conversation. "If _you_ didn't take it, I'd give it to someone else. Especially after Barry—"

"Okay, stop." Stiles pushes his plate to the middle of the table and buries his head in his hands. After a few seconds, Derek hears the telltale sound of mirth coming from him. "Sorry," he says, looking up, tears of laughter gleaming in his eyes. "But this is fucking unreal. Derek Hale has a _tax attorney_. Named _Barry._ Is he in the _mob_?"

"What? No! God, you're an infant sometimes." He balls up his shredded napkin and tosses it at Stiles' head, who bats it away with a laugh.

"Tell me the truth, Derek. How often do you meet with your accountant? Do you…" Stiles leans forward, licking his lips and looking around like he's making sure no one's listening, and whispers dramatically, " _crunch numbers_?"

Warmth curls through Derek, and he can't stop the upward twitch of his lips. Stiles is a ridiculous moron, but his antics settle Derek in ways nothing else could. It actually reminds him of why it is he's chosen Stiles for this and not, well… Scott or Cora. Urgh.

"Oh yeah," Derek says, smirking and lowering his voice to a husky register. "We get together twice a week. Talk about spreadsheets and annuities. Don't get me started on Roth IRAs." He bites his lip on a moan, and is pleased to see Stiles' eyes darken just a touch. 

Stiles flops back against his side of the booth, shaking his head sadly. "It's like the leather jackets and muscle cars are a _lie_. You're really just a sheep in wolf's clothing. Next you'll be joining the PTA, getting elected to the _school board_."

Derek allows Stiles to ramble on like this while he eats, letting the words wash over him. When his steak is gone and all that's left are wilted bits of broccoli, Derek cuts through Stiles' chatter with a pointed, "Did you want to know what he said or not?"

Stiles blinks. "Whaaa? Who?"

"Barry? My tax attorney?"

"Oh. Right, yes." Waving his knife around, Stiles says, "Carry on," before he cuts his burger down the middle. 

"So apparently there are rules to giving out scholarships, even privately funded ones. I'd have to open it up to people, let them apply and compete and stuff. I can't just say, 'This is the Stiles Stilinski Scholarship for Swimming Prowess' or whatever."

Around a mouthful of burger, Stiles chimes in with, "Swimming prowess is fucking right."

Derek makes a face, but continues. "Anyway, he's much more interested in doing it as a trust fund. Apparently the tax benefits would almost offset the cost of the trust."

"What does that mean?"

"The amount I'd save in taxes would almost be the same as what I'd be paying for you to…" he shrugs, eyes dropping to the table again.

"You pay _fifty thousand dollars_ in taxes?!" Stiles' voice is a muffled scream, his eyes round in horror.

Derek just blinks, thrown slightly off track. "I pay a shit load more than that."

"I thought rich people didn't pay taxes. That's why you have lawyers and shit, so they can find ways for you not to pay taxes. I think you should fire Barry, dude." Stiles points a french fry at him before popping it in his mouth with a firm nod. 

"You know," Derek muses, shaking his head, "I feel for your generation. Not knowing about things like tax evasion and …" A fry impacting his forehead makes him growl softly in warning.

"You're not _that_ much older than me, asshole." Stiles drags another fry through a puddle of watery-looking ketchup, face going serious and introspective. After a long moment, he looks up at Derek and says, "You're serious, though? It'll save you money?"

Derek shrugs. That's not entirely accurate, because it'll still cost him in the short run, and the tax benefits probably aren't as great as all that, but… "Something like that."

"Hmm." Stiles plays with his food some more before pushing his plate away. "Okay, well. I still need to go grocery shopping." He looks around for the waitress, but Derek can see the wheels spinning behind his eyes.

He might as well start unwrapping a condom now.

~*~

Derek answers his phone without looking, just swipes his finger across the screen and mutters a gruff, "Hello?"

"Derek?" Stiles' voice down the line sounds a little raspy. Breathless.

The sheets slide slowly down Derek's chest as he sits up in bed, _interest_ pooling in his gut. He shifts a little, clears his throat. "Stiles?"

"Hey, man. Uh. Have you heard from Scott?"

The direction of Derek's thoughts grinds to a halt as he processes this question. "No? Should I have?"

"It's just. I can't get him to answer his phone and—" A loud whinny sounds through the connection, freezing Derek's blood.

"Stiles! Where are you?" Derek jumps out of bed, ripping the sheets away when they try to wind around his legs.

"I'm at my house. I'm fine. Second floor bedroom and all that. But, you know, unicorn. He's here. I feel like we should give him a name. I threw an apple at him a few minutes ago. That just kinda pissed him off."

"Shit." Derek's mind is whirling. "I'm on my way. Don't hang up, okay?"

"Yeah, I didn't plan on it. Look, it's not… Don't come charging in or anything. I don't need you getting hurt. It's still outside. It can't figure out the porch steps."

Derek rolls the loft door shut, blinking in disbelief. "The porch…?" 

"Yeah." Stiles laughs, sounding only slightly hysterical. "Of all things, right?"

"No, I mean, it makes sense. Most animals have trouble with them." The stairs take very little time to descend. Derek just hopes Stiles can't hear that he's _frog leaping_ down them.

"Yay for bipedalism."

"There's a reason human's are at the top of the food chain." He dashes toward the Camaro as soon as he hits the ground floor, keys jingling in his hand as the asphalt cuts into his bare feet. 

Oops. Maybe he should have worn shoes.

"How long do you think it's gonna stay here?" There's a tired sigh down the line, and Derek tries not to drop his phone. Putting it on speaker, he tosses it gently into the passenger seat and starts the car, throwing it into gear almost before the engine has finished turning over.

"I don't know. But I'll be there inside five minutes. Did you call your dad?" Derek winces as he blows through a red light, but it's one without cameras and there's no one else around so hopefully he won't find a ticket in the mail.

"Hell no. I read somewhere that all your body's cells are replaced every seven years."

Derek can't stop the confused growl that rolls from his throat. "What does that even—"

"He hasn't had sex since my mom died, dude. What if the seven years thing means he's technically a virgin now too?"

"I'm cutting you off from google, I swear to god," Derek mutters, tires screeching as he cuts his wheel hard to the right, turning into Stiles' neighborhood. He winds through the darkened streets, avoiding cars parked along the curb and random toys. Three turns later, and the whinnying that had been coming through the phone sounds clearly through his window as well. "I'm almost there," he says, just loud enough for Stiles to hear him.

"You better not have left a string of dead pedestrians in your trail. My dad will be _pissed_."

Derek parks three houses down; he's not an idiot, no matter what Stiles says. The unicorn probably won't attack his car if he gets too close, but he's not taking any chances. He sees Stiles waving at him from the upstairs window. Creeping around the side of the house away from where the unicorn is still trying to figure out the porch steps, Derek jumps into a tree and, from there, to the roof of the house. Running along it carefully — he doesn't want to be the reason the Sheriff has to replace his shingles — Derek gets to where he's fairly sure Stiles' bedroom window is and slowly lowers himself to his stomach. 

Hanging upside down, he comes face to face with Stiles and says, "Hi. No pressure, but I brought the condoms. Just in case."

Stiles narrows his eyes, looks down at the unicorn, and huffs out a breath. "Don't break your neck getting down from there, asshat. You have some ravishing to do."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of Sexy Times.

Stiles stands back long enough for Derek to swing himself off the roof and through the window, then he's crowding back in, wide-eyed gaze locked on the unicorn that's stamping on the third porch step. There's a cracking sound, and Derek sticks his head next to Stiles' to see that the unicorn has managed to put one hoof _through_ the step. 

"Fuck," Stiles mutters, smelling like anxiety. "Someone's _definitely_ going to call my dad now."

Derek frowns, looking at the houses closest to the Stilinski's. They're all dark, and though the unicorn is still kicking up a fuss, if he strains, he can hear muffled heartbeats. They all sound slow and even. "No one's awake. I think we're safe for now."

" _How_?" Stiles flails his arms toward the unicorn, which takes that opportunity to scream angrily, jerking against the porch stair and ripping it out. They both flinch back at the ungodly screeching sound of the nails being torn from the wood. "How the _fuck_ is that not waking the entire neighborhood?"

Derek shrugs, knuckling at his eardrum. 

"Wow, that is so fucking helpful. Thank you so much for your wise guidance, o protector of the hills of beacon." An angry flush rides high on Stiles' cheeks as he spits out his snark.

"What do you want from me, Stiles? I have never in my life even _heard_ of a unicorn outside of fairy tale books. I don't know _why_ your neighbors aren't all awake, standing in the street, gawking at it. Maybe there's some sort of magic that makes it so only those touched by the supernatural can hear it or see it. Or maybe your neighbors houses are all really well sound proofed. Maybe they all sleep incredibly deeply. Maybe they're used to weird shit happening and are ignoring it. I don't _know_." Stepping back, Derek pushes Stiles out of the way of the window before he shuts and locks it, trying to block out at least some of the noise of a pissed off mythical equine. "All I know about this particular animal is that it's trying to kill you. We _think_ that's because you're a virgin, but for all we really know, it could be because you have brown eyes."

" _Scott_ has brown eyes," Stiles mutters, wrapping his arms around himself. "It's not trying to kill _him_."

"Don't be pedantic." Derek watches Stiles for a minute, then approaches him slowly. Sliding one hand around the back of his neck, he pulls Stiles into a loose embrace. Lowering his voice, he vows, "I'm not going to let it hurt you. I'm not going to let it hurt your dad, either. I know you're freaked out right now, and I don't blame you. But I need you here, okay? Not trapped in your head."

Stiles slowly relaxes, letting his arms fall before lightly gripping Derek's hips. Voice muffled against Derek's shoulder, he says, "We're going to do this, huh?"

"If you don't want to, we'll find another way. No matter what, though, I'm staying here tonight. 'M not leaving you alone." Derek lets his fingers slide up into Stiles' hair, cradling his head. 

Even the muffled sounds of the unicorn stomping around in the front yard aren't enough to distract him from the feel of Stiles' body pressed to his. He's been ignoring this for years; now that he's open to the possibility of having more than a totally platonic relationship with Stiles, his senses are assaulted with the utter perfection of him. The clean musk of his scent, the feel of his hair sliding through Derek's fingers, the press of his lean, muscular body against Derek's. 

Stiles is physically representative of Derek's _type_ in every way, from his long limbs to his broad shoulders. The line of his throat makes Derek's teeth itch on a good day; to have it so close now is a siren call he can't ignore. He turns his head, lips brushing against the rapidly beating pulse, rubbing his scruff over the sensitive skin just because he knows it'll pink up beautifully — and stay that way.

Stiffening against him with a small gasp, Stiles' fingers tighten on his hips as he tilts his chin, offering Derek more. _Submitting._

Derek's chest rumbles with a low, pleased growl, and he opens his mouth, tongue and teeth pressing into salty flesh, just as a piercing whinny cuts through the air. 

Stiles jolts back, eyes wide, though he doesn't loosen his grip on Derek's hips. " _Jesus_ ," he breathes. "When one of you fuckers writes my biography, make sure to title it 'Cockbocked by Murder.'"

"Fuck _that_." Derek thumbs over the spit-slick place his mouth had been and pulls Stiles into a kiss. 

It's better this time. Maybe they'd worked out the awkwardness the last time they did this, or maybe danger makes them more coordinated, but their parted lips slot together perfectly now. Pushing forward, Derek slides his tongue across Stiles' lower lip, slips it into the warmth of his mouth and hums his approval as Stiles meets him halfway. Stiles may be a virgin, but there's little doubt that he's got more than enough experience at _this_.

Derek groans, arousal roaring through him, as Stiles' fingers slip under the waistband of his sweatpants, flirting with the top of his ass. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss in retaliation, _fucking_ his tongue into Stiles' mouth. Dragging one hand down Stiles' chest, he grabs the hem of his shirt and pushes it up, gets his hand on warm, bare skin. It's not enough, though. He needs _more_.

Pulling back, he ignores Stiles' bitten-off noise of protest and quickly strips the shirt over Stiles' head, ruffling his hair. Derek stares, awed, at the sight of Stiles' chest. He can't honestly remember a time that he's ever seen him like this. For as long as he's known Stiles, for all the scrapes they've been in together, Stiles has always managed to remain fully clothed. Which, Derek can see now, was a goddamn shame.

Because Stiles is _beautiful_ in the moonlight that shines through the window. His chest is lightly defined, marked here and there by tiny imperfections. A scar on his shoulder that's been faded by time, another darker one on his side where he'd taken a hunter's bullet the previous year. There are moles and freckles and a patch of hair in the middle of his chest that makes Derek's mouth water. And his nipples…

They're plump, dusky in the dim light, almost feminine. Without thought, Derek is touching them, thumbing over the nubs until they harden under his touch. He drops his head, mouthing at one, flicking over it with the tip of his tongue even as he hears Stiles' breath break on a moan. 

Sliding his hands down, he grabs the back of Stiles' thighs, tugs and lifts until Stiles is grasping at his shoulders, legs wrapped around Derek's waist. He can feel Stiles' hard length pressing into his stomach and rumbles his approval even as he suckles on Stiles' nipple, refusing to let it go when Stiles tugs on his head.

"Bed, Derek," Stiles moans. Then, "oh, fuck," when Derek takes a step, the bunching and flexing of his muscles providing friction that has Stiles rolling his hips in counterpoint, mindlessly seeking _more_. 

Derek's knees hit the edge of the bed and, reluctantly, he removes his mouth to lower Stiles to the mattress, only to fall onto it himself when Stiles doesn't loosen the grip his legs have around Derek's waist. He gets his hands under him in time not to crush Stiles, but that just puts him eye-level with the nipple he'd been devouring and the sight of it now makes him groan, his hips hitching desperately. 

It's red, swollen, bruised from Derek's mouth. He has to close his eyes, rest his head against Stiles' sternum, Stiles' chest hair crinkling against his forehead.

"If you want to stop," Derek grits through his teeth, cock throbbing desperately in his sweats, "you need to tell me now. I-I can stop if you want." _He hopes_.

"Oh my god, you _asshole_. Don't you fucking _dare_ —" Stiles bites off the rest of his words, fingers digging into the underside of Derek's biceps as he tugs, pulling Derek up until they're close enough to kiss. His teeth sink into Derek's lower lip punishingly before he tips his head back, eyes bright and wild. "I'll fucking _end you_ if you stop now—"

The rest of his words are lost as Derek swallows them down, grinds his hips into Stiles'. They've still got too many clothes on, Stiles' sleep pants and Derek's sweats bunching between them and providing all the wrong kinds of friction. But Stiles, always so smart, pushes with his hands, drags with his feet, until the cloth is out of the way, tangled around their knees. 

"Fuck, Derek, _fuck_ ," Stiles mumbles into his mouth while Derek gasps for breath. "Not gonna last—"

No, of course not. Derek isn't either, but he has just enough conscious thought left that he reaches down and wraps his hand around Stiles' cock. A shudder wracks his entire body then, because just the _feel_ of Stiles in his hand, the hot, thick length of him, is fucking _perfect._

He drops his head to the side, mouthing at Stiles' throat and shoulder as he slides his fist up and down Stiles' length, memorizing the heft of it in his hand. The tip is wet, _dripping_ messily; Derek slides his hand up, palming it, getting his hand all sticky wet, before he tightens his grip and _squeezes_ back down. Over and over, he pulls and twists, shuddering with each bead of precome that wets his fist, filling the air with the smell of _sex_. 

He stifles his moans in Stiles' neck, biting down with blunt teeth and sucking gently, making it better, marking him up. 

Stiles stiffens below him, Derek's name stuttering from his lips as his cock twitches and swells in Derek's grip before he's coming, spurting between them, wetting their stomachs.

Derek rips his mouth from Stiles' neck, bites down on his own lip until he tastes blood. Focuses on the pain until he pulls back from the edge, until he doesn't feel as if he's going to follow Stiles right over it.

_Fuck_ , he's never felt this desperate during sex before, not even when he was a virgin himself. 

"D'you," Stiles finally slurs near his ear, recovered enough for conversation. "D'you think that's enough?"

Derek slides his hand through the come on Stiles' stomach, gathers it up on his fingers. "Not taking chances," he mutters, kneeling up and flipping Stiles over. Kicking their pants out of the way, he smears Stiles' come between his ass cheeks and follows it with his tongue.

Seriously. Idiot. They haven't even used a condom yet.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most sincere apologies on the lateness of this chapter. I got thrown off stride by the three day weekend. (Columbus Day for Americans.)
> 
> The next chapter will be up on time! I promise!

Derek bends down, drags his jaw over the left side of Stiles' ass to watch the skin turn a bright, mottled red, and then...it hits him. The _scent_.

It's thick, and musky, made so much more potent by the come he'd smeared there. Because he wants to taste Stiles, all of him, open him up on his tongue and dig that flavor out of him, but also suck him down. This is... It's too much.

He was too close to the fragile barrier of his control anyway, and now his fangs are itching to slide down. He twists his fingers in the bedding, holds tight as his entire body shakes with want, the mattress trembling under his knees.

Stiles, still come drunk and sex stupid, is just laying there, ass up high, knees drawn to his chest, arms flopped to his sides. But he must realize something is wrong because he flaps a hand weakly at Derek.

"Mnuh?"

Derek clenches his teeth, rocking back and forth on his knees, unconsciously continuing to rub his face across Stiles' naked ass. "Just," he hisses, eyes squeezed closed, "be still for a minute. I need..."

"J'sus, dude, just rub one out. 'S not like you can't get it up again. Y'r not tha' old."

Derek snaps his teeth, growling, and rears up, sliding his dick along the tacky, sticky crease of Stiles' ass, pushing one spit-slick palm over the top to provide better friction.

It's the heat of Stiles, the sight of his raw ass cheek, yes, but mostly it's the scent of Derek's precome mingling with Stiles' scent that has him roaring through an orgasm within a handful of thrusts. He collapses against Stiles' back, whimpering through aftershocks, bathing the back of Stiles' thighs with his last few spurts. 

He wraps shaky arms around Stiles and tips them to the side, mouth already seeking out the meaty part of Stiles' shoulder. He stifles his uncontrollable noises there, sucking a livid bruise into the skin as he waits for his breathing and heart rate to calm. It's as he's paying attention to his own vital stats that he feels Stiles stir against him. 

"Hey."

"Hnnn?" Derek drags his tongue across the wide, dark bruise, tastes the promise of blood beneath the surface.

"Listen."

Derek bites back an automatic, "I am," and focuses outward. The clopping, stomping sounds of the unicorn's hooves have disappeared. There are no more whinnying screams of frustration.

Instinct has him tightening his hold on Stiles, makes him press his palm to Stiles' abdomen and knead the flesh with his hand. Stiles sighs in response, curving his spine as he presses back into Derek.

"Thank god that's over," Stiles murmurs.

Derek... panics. "You don't know that. You don't know that it won't be back. You—"

"What the _fuck_ , man?" Stiles sounds _pissed._ Derek can't smell his emotions over the heady scent of their combined come, but he stiffens, alarmed at Stiles' tone.

"What?" He runs a shaky hand up to Stiles' chest, feels the solid, rapid beat of his heart.

"You couldn't just let me have this? I was gonna be so fucking easy to convince." Stiles wriggles around until he's looking at Derek, eyes bright with anger, cheeks as flushed as his ass. "You could have just agreed with me. Given me a minute to not be scared as fuck."

Derek blinks, lips parting as horror at himself washes through him. "I'm... Shit." He flops back, covers his face with his hands so he won't have to see Stiles' face when he admits, "I didn't want this to be over. I. I said the first thing that came to my head. I'm sorry." He lowers his hands, gaze locked on the ceiling. He feels like the scum of the earth.

What kind of a person _does_ that? Uses their friend's fear to compel them to have sex?

"Wait. What?" 

Turning his head, Derek lets his eyes trail over Stiles' face, the confusion and lingering anger there sharpening his features and wrinkling his brow. Giving a half-shrug, Derek says again, "I didn't want to stop… this." He waves his hand between them. "I—"

"Why the fuck would we stop this?" Stiles asks, anger fading completely in face of his deepening confusion.

"Uh. Because you didn't actually _want_ to do this in the first place? The only reason you agreed was because there was a _unicorn_ at your house that wanted to kill you." Derek really isn't sure why he has to explain this.

"Okay, wait. I think we got a few wires crossed here. I have _no problem_ having sex with you, you gigantic idiot. You know, once I figured out you weren't completely opposed to the idea of it. My problem with this whole situation stems from you thinking it's perfectly okay to offer me _money_ to have sex with you. Like you even _need_ to sweeten the pot." He gestures at Derek's splayed form, eyebrows bobbing. "And I mean… okay. I get it. You're filthy fucking rich. But I don't _care_ about that. And if I take your money, that's always going to be hanging over us. Because you and I both know, I'm never going to be able to pay you back."

Derek sits up, crossing his legs and dragging the sheets over his lap. He avoids looking anywhere but at Stiles' face because he's not exactly sure where they're going with this conversation, but he's pretty positive they're not getting back to addressing the number of condoms in his pocket any time soon. "I don't care if you never pay me back. Stiles." He shakes his head, eyes flickering around the room as he tries to find a way to explain this. "The money that Laura and I inherited was pack money. And yeah, the Hale pack was basically just my family, because we were big enough to be a contained pack, but even if my family had all survived that night… if Laura was still here," his jaw flexes as he bites back the pain of that thought, "in my mind, you would still have as much right to pack money as I do. As she did. You're _pack_. So is Scott, so is Isaac and Jackson and Lydia. I don't see it as _my_ money. It's _pack_ money. I want to use it to help the pack. And if that means paying for you to go to CalTech, then that's the best utilization of the money I can think of."

Stiles grumbles, pushing himself to a seated position as well. "Derek, I think you and I both know that's a bunch of bullshit." When Derek opens his mouth to argue, Stiles beats him to it. "If you really saw that money as pack money, you'd have bought a house as soon as you turned your first beta. As soon as you bit Jackson, you'd have used that money to provide for your new pack, before you even realized Jackson's bite didn't take. But instead, you held onto _your family's_ money. And when you did finally break down and buy a place with an actual address and a mail slot and all that, you bought the cheapest, most run down abandoned apartment building in town. It had _holes_ in the wall, Derek. That was your investment. How much did that entire building cost?"

Derek looks down, glares at the rumpled bedding. There are a million arguments against Stiles' logic, and they all boil down to the same thing. "I didn't think I was going to survive. Why waste pack money on a house when the hunters — and then the Alpha pack — were going to kill me anyway?"

"What?" Stiles' voice sounds hollow, scooped-out. Horrified.

"When I came back, when I knew Laura was dead, I moved the money. I put it in overseas banks that can only be accessed by an account number. I had Barry—" he pauses at Stiles' snort, "draw up paperwork in case I died. The money was going to go to Scott."

"All of it?" 

"I would be dead. He was going to be the last surviving member of my pack… or so I thought. I thought the Argents killed Laura and I would be next. I didn't _know_ Peter was the one that killed Laura. And Peter's own inheritance was enough to pay for his nursing facility for the rest of his natural life. I thought everything was taken care of. And then…" He shrugs. "I didn't die. I killed Peter, became the Alpha, and had nothing left but two ridiculous boys that didn't want to be in my pack. But the Argent's numbers were swelling, and Scott was _dating_ one, against all reason."

"Allison wasn't Kate," Stiles whispers now, and anger flushes through Derek.

"She could have been. You don't… you don't know what it was like. He was sixteen, and in _love_ , and she could have—" He cuts himself off, the old argument bitter on his tongue. Because Stiles is right, of course. In the end, Allison had been so far removed from Kate that she'd given her life to defend Scott. A hunter dying for an Alpha werewolf. 

Guilt claws through him like an old friend.

But Stiles meets it head-on. Slips up close to Derek, hooks his legs around him, apparently unconcerned with their state of undress. His hands are on Derek's cheeks, firm and sure. He forces Derek to look at him, and those eyes are dark, serious as Derek has ever seen them. "You're not allowed to do that anymore. Promise me."

Derek draws his eyebrows together, has no idea what promise Stiles is trying to extract. 

"Stop planning your own funeral. Okay? We've lost enough. We've given enough blood to this town." His thumb smoothes over Derek's cheek, going against the grain of his scruff until the scrape of thick stubble over skin sounds loud in the quiet. "I'm assuming you offered the money to Scott at some point. What did he say?"

Derek has a hard time concentrating, distracted by the way Stiles is scent-marking him, unconscious though it probably is. "Yeah, I told him. I tried to give it to him when I accepted him as my Alpha."

"And? What'd he say?" Stiles seems to be losing attention too, eyes tracking his thumb as it moves over Derek's cheek, mouth gaping just the slightest bit.

Derek shifts on the bed, arousal warming in his blood. "Told me to keep it. Said he wouldn't know what to do with that much money. Said it was my inheritance and it was his job as Alpha to find a way to provide for the pack without taking the money."

"Aww, poor baby." Stiles' teeth flash, white in the darkness, his smile sharp enough to cut to the bone. "You just can't _give_ your money away."

"It's the _pack's_ —"

"Mmmhmm." Stiles cuts him off and leans forward, breathes over Derek's lips. "Stop talking." He sucks Derek's lower lip into his mouth, fingers tightening on either side of his face. A low noise, full of want and _need_ , rumbles from his throat, making Derek gasp and press forward, licking at Stiles' top lip until their mouths are open against one another, sharing breath. The tips of their tongues touch and withdraw. Stiles doesn't pull away, just speaks directly into Derek's mouth when he says, "Please fuck me now."

Derek groans, lunging forward and knocking them over until Stiles' head is hanging off the foot of his bed. Lifting up onto one elbow and grabbing for his sweats, which are dangling by one leg right next to them, Derek rips the condoms from his pocket. "Well, okay. Since you said _please_."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, my deepest apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I know it should have gone up last Thursday, but life intervened. Plus, I didn't want to post a tiny little 600-word bit of nothing. So! Here, have a much longer than normal chapter full of unrepentant porn instead. :-* You are all lovely and I'm grateful as hell for your patience.

Derek kisses his way down Stiles' body, sucking marks into his pale skin and then licking over those marks to taste _Stiles_ underneath them. Lingering over his plump nipples, Derek tunes his ears to the rapid, heavy beat of Stiles' heart, listening to his lungs work as his breathing speeds up, goes shallow, turns into little whimpers and moans of pleasure. Stiles buries his hands in Derek's hair, whole body twisting and turning under Derek's hands and mouth. 

"I want to taste you," Derek whispers against Stiles' hipbone, which is livid with wide, oblong patches of purple and red. 

"Mmm… kay." Stiles twitches his hips sideways, his dick brushing up against Derek's cheek, leaving a spot of precome there and making them both release gasps of pleasure — though Stiles' is more wild than Derek's and tinged with a bit of pain, likely due to the scrape of Derek's stubble over Stiles' cockhead.

Derek chuckles, the sound dark, rolling from deep in his chest. "I'm not going to suck you off, Stiles," he murmurs, wickedly teasing. "Not yet, anyway."

Shifting around on the bed, he grabs Stiles' thighs, pulling them wider, lifting him until he can grasp the underside of them with his palms and hold Stiles' body high, bent nearly in half. Nosing at Stiles' balls, Derek inhales, dragging that musky, pure scent deep into him. His mouth is perfectly positioned to suck at the tight skin below, teeth nipping gently, and he laves it with his tongue even as he hears Stiles slap the bed. The only thing that keeps Stiles from twitching right out of his grasp is the firm hold Derek has on him.

"Oh god, oh god… _Derek._ " Stiles sounds half out of his mind, which isn't enough to satisfy Derek. He wants him all the way gone, completely incapable of words. Wants _his_ scent burned into Stiles' skin and _Stiles'_ scent permanently etched in his nostrils. Wants everyone to know he's the only…

Derek stifles that too-telling thought, pushes it down in his head. It's probably the intimacy of the moment talking anyway. His instincts always act up when he's buried deep inside another person. 

Derek ignores the fact that he hasn't gotten that far yet.

The first swipe of his tongue over the tightly furled entrance to Stiles' body makes Stiles arch so hard something in his joints pops. Derek pauses, tongue pressed to the quivering muscle, listening intently to any change in Stiles' breathing or heartbeat that would indicate pain. But Stiles' hips are jerking against him, his ass is rocking helplessly against Derek's face, and the only thing Derek can smell is the full, perfect scent of him. All he can hear is the gurgling, choked sound of Stiles' _need_.

So he drags his feet under him, sits on them, throws Stiles' legs over his shoulders and settles in, fingers sinking into Stiles' hips to keep him steady. He lashes Stiles' tiny, tight asshole with his tongue, licks and sucks and slurps up his own drool, until Stiles relaxes enough for him to wedge the tip inside him. He twists his head, corkscrewing his tongue in and in until Stiles' thighs clench around his head, his whole body drawn up tight and perfect as his cries of Derek's name turns to stuttering consonants that have no meaning. 

Derek lets go of his grip on Stiles' hips, scratches the tips of his fingers around the curve of Stiles' sides and reaches, stretches, face pushing closer into the damp heat of Stiles' ass as his fingers unerringly find the nubs of Stiles' nipples and _pinch_. Stiles' hips twitch and something wet and hot splatters over the back of Derek's right hand.

With a last, small lick, Derek pulls back from Stiles' ass with a low, mourning noise, knowing he'll be too sensitive for a while. As he pulls back, he sees how red and raw the cheeks of Stiles' ass are from his scruff and he can't hold back a toothy grin. He likes seeing his mark laid out bare like that. Likes knowing _he_ did that.

While he waits for Stiles to remember how to coordinate his breathing, Derek tears a single condom from the strip that's flung haphazardly over the wrecked sheets. He puts it atop the pillow and throws the rest of them into the cubby of Stiles' headboard in the same recessed nook where he finds a half-empty bottle of lube… behind a years-old picture of Scott and Stiles. Derek raises his eyebrows as he wonders if the spot has any sort of attached meaning, then raises them more when he reads the label on the lube.

It's not the _most_ expensive brand, but it's quality stuff.

"What?"

Derek looks down at Stiles, breath catching in his chest at the sight of him. His cheeks, throat and chest are flushed, splotchy. He's covered in Derek's marks, and there are traces of beard burn everywhere. He looks well-fucked, his eyes lazy and over-bright behind the nearly slitted lids. His mouth is bright pink from where he's bitten his own lips, and shiny from where he swiped his tongue over them. As Derek watches, burning inside with his own want, Stiles does it again.

A strangled groan fills the air, and it's not until Derek is bent down over Stiles, sucking on those lips and nipping them with his teeth, that he realizes that the sound came from _him_. His hands are wrapped around Stiles' biceps, pinning him to the mattress. He doesn't even stop to think about where his mouth had been moments before, doesn't consider that Stiles might have objections. 

But Stiles kisses back, just as desperate and greedy as Derek, licking into Derek's mouth to chase his own flavor. 

Derek grows impossibly harder, more needy. He feels like he's going to explode if he doesn't get inside Stiles _right now_. Pulling free of the kiss, he drops his face into Stiles' throat and just breathes, his breath shuddering out of him as his fingers knead at the firm muscle of Stiles' arms. "I want," he starts, then has to swallow, has to unstick his tongue where it's so thick with want in his mouth. "I need," he tries again.

Stiles cuts him off, twisting to press kisses to the top of Derek's head. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Just… you know. I need a little stretch. You want me to—?"

Derek's shaking his head before Stiles can even finish that question. It was stupid anyway. As if Derek wants any part of _this_ stripped away from him. He's greedy, he knows it, but this is _his_ and he's not giving up _any_ of it.

He'll have to buy Stiles another bottle of lube, because he spills a mess of it on Stiles' belly in his shaky, overeager haste. He kneels there, Stiles' thighs spread high and wide, his recently-sated cock already half-hard and pressed into his belly. Derek stares hungrily at the hole that's still red and raw-looking from his earlier attention. His hand trembles as he reaches down, his fingers petting softly over the skin before circling the hole steadily, pressing and retreating. Mouth dropping open in awe, he watches as Stiles' ass kisses the pad of his thumb and then he's pushing it in, just the tip. Watches as it disappears into Stiles' body, _feels_ the grasping heat of him.

Derek groans, chin dipping to his chest as he fights his need to shove his thumb into that hot clench. His other fingers are curled in on themselves, nails digging into his palm to provide the pain he needs to pull back from that edge. 

"Come _on_ ," Stiles growls, lifting one leg to nudge at Derek's shoulder with his heel. "You're taking too long, dammit."

The sound of Stiles' impatience settles Derek, because it's so _normal_. So much a part of his everyday interaction with Stiles. His chest loosens, feels less like his lungs are going to explode. His breaths even out, and though he still feels like he's walking on a tight-rope where his control is concerned, he thinks maybe he can do this without losing it. 

Maybe he's not going to fall on Stiles and shove in, all harsh and animalistic with his own need. 

He stretches Stiles slowly, taking his time, making sure he's as ready as possible. When Stiles reaches for the condom, Derek shakes his head, growling softly. Maybe he's not as in control as he thought.

Stiles doesn't look impressed. "Dude, I don't care about werewolf healing. We're using one."

"No, that's not… If you touch me right now, I don't know…"

Stiles' eyebrows shoot up and a wide grin stretches his mouth. "What? Really?! Oh my god, seriously? You're that hot for—"

Kisses are going to quickly become Derek's favorite thing. They are _so_ effective at shutting Stiles up. He should have thought of this _years_ ago.

Derek pulls away, fumbling for the condom. With the leftover lube on his fingers, it's a struggle to open, but he finally gets the top of the foil packet ripped away. The condom goes on quickly — it has to; if he were to linger smoothing it down over his dick, he'd probably shoot off in his hand. 

"Do you want to roll over?" he asks, locking eyes with Stiles, who still looks a little dazed from their kiss. "It might be more comfortable for you.

Stiles twists onto his elbow, like he's going to flip onto his belly, before he stops and looks up at Derek, a hint of self-consciousness filtering into his expression. "Would it be okay if we… like this?"

"Yeah. Give me a pillow." 

Folding the offered pillow in half, Derek shoves it under Stiles' hips and then pushes Stiles' thighs wide. "Let me know if you need me to stop."

Stiles stares up at him, eyes wide, and licks nervously over his upper lip before nodding. "Y-yeah. Okay. Just… Oh!"

Derek stares down at Stiles as he slowly slides inside him, tries to keep his eyes open to see if there's any pain on Stiles' face, but it feels _too good_. He can't help it when his eyes fall shut, a breath punching out of him at the tight, clenching heat of Stiles' ass. He doesn't stop until he's fully seated, and then it takes two long, shaky breaths for him to open his eyes again. 

Stiles' eyes are squeezed shut, little twitches in the muscles at the corners of them. His chin is tipped back, exposing his throat — Derek swallows roughly, teeth itching to sink into that beautiful column of flesh — and his jaw flexes with each burst of air through his nose. 

Trying not to move from the waist down, Derek shifts on his elbows until he can slide his hand into Stiles' hair, brushing it back from his face, tangling his fingers in the sweaty strands. "It's okay," he murmurs, gasping and accidentally tugging at Stiles' hair when Stiles' ass clenches down on him. "Mmm, ahh. Just… just let me know when it stops hurting."

Stiles shakes his head. "Doesn't… hurt. Just." He breathes out, eyes rolling a little behind his eyelids before he works them open one at a time. "It's a stretch, y'know? Really. Really _full._ 'S not like toys?" He flushes a little as he offers that last commentary, and Derek can't stop a laugh from bursting from him.

The rocking of his body when he laughs makes them both hiss, though, and Derek is back to looking at the inside of his eyelids as tiny explosions of pleasure rocket through him. "Hnngh. Um." He shudders, straining for control. "Can't believe… you're blushing about sex toys right now."

"Yeah, well." Stiles' voice sounds a little rough, a little breathless. "Figured you knew more than you ever needed to about my masturbatory practices, what with your nose. Didn't think you needed details."

"My tongue has been inside your ass. My balls are currently _touching_ your ass. Pretty sure that makes this — fuck, don't do that!" he groans when Stiles flexes around him again. "Ahh."

"Makes this what?" 

Derek wrenches his eyes open again, trying to concentrate on anything but the feel of Stiles all around his dick. "Fuck. No idea. Can I move yet?" It's not a whine, even if his voice is a little stretched out and pitchy.

Stiles' grin is cheeky, sharp. "Thought you'd never ask." And then he's shoving up at Derek with his hips, and _oh fuck._ Oh fuck, it's too much. 

Dropping his head to Stiles' shoulder, Derek rolls his whole body into that first thrust, then the second and third. He's trying to make it good, trying to go slow and smooth, but already his breath is stuttering and his stomach muscles are jumping. He just wants to hold Stiles down and let go. _Pound_ into the tight clutch of his ass.

He won't, though. He won't. He's not some mindless beast bent only on his own pleasure. He's going to do this _right_.

Reaching down, he pets along Stiles' lower abdomen until he's gripping his cock. It's still a little soft, not quite fully in the game yet, so he gives it a few pumps in time with the rocking of his hips. He gathers up the slick from Stiles' belly and it makes the slide of his palm over Stiles' cock nice and smooth. It's not long before Stiles is lifting into each tug, fucking between Derek's hand and his dick.

And then Derek lets go. Bracing himself on the bed, he pushes himself up on his hands, steering clear of Stiles' cock so as not to give him anything to rub against. The bitten-off snarl Stiles makes at that has him grinning, wide and a little evil, until Stiles reaches for himself. Derek slaps his hand away and shakes his head. 

"No. Don't come. Not yet. Need you to… wait for it."

Stiles whines through his teeth, chin tipping back as his back arches, hips slapping into Derek's every thrust. "Want… please."

Derek shakes his head roughly, beads of sweat flinging off the ends of his hair. "Not yet. Want you to… when I'm — _oh fuck_ — want you to fuck me. It'll take too long if you — _Stiles!_ " he shouts when Stiles' ass clenches all around him. That does it. Two more sharp, jabbing thrusts, and Derek's orgasm barrels through him, punching the breath from his lungs and leaving him collapsed, as wrecked as the sheets, atop Stiles' heaving chest.

He can't coordinate himself enough to move yet, even when Stiles' bony finger starts jabbing him in the ribs. 

"Get up, get up, getupgetupgetup!" Stiles says, shoving at Derek's shoulders. He sounds distressed, and Derek blearily realizes he's probably crushing Stiles, so he uses every ounce of his remaining strength to roll over. 

Thankfully the condom stays with him, because he hadn't the coordination necessary to hang onto it. 

Stiles jumps up, far too limber and energetic after everything. He kneels over Derek, slapping at his cheek only somewhat gently. Derek growls at him, flapping a hand weakly to get him to stop. "Whaa?"

"Did you mean it?"

"Hnn?" Jesus, Stiles is all bright eyed and eager, and Derek just wants to lay here and contemplate the rotation of the Earth around the Sun for a minute. Or maybe it's the rotation of the bed around the room. Something. He just knows his head is still a little spinny after the force of that climax.

"You said you wanted me to… you know." Apparently Derek has his eyes open — who knew? — because he can clearly see Stiles' hands flailing somewhere to his left.

"Now who can't say it?" Derek thinks he's grinning, but he's not actually sure that his facial expression changed at all. His face is a little tingly and numb.

"Oh, asshole. Just for that? I'm going to fuck you _slow_."

"Promises, promises."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all thought I forgot, didn't you?! Hah! It's still Thursday. In Alaska and Hawaii. *head desk* 
> 
> I know, I know. I suck. Here, have a chapter. :D

When Stiles promised _slow_ , he apparently meant _glacial_. He's been trailing his fingers over every inch of Derek's body for so long, as intense and focused as Derek's ever seen him. Finally, he leans down, breathing over Derek's collarbone before swiping at it with his tongue, just tasting the skin. 

Derek arches into the touch, a beat too slow. His whole body feels too relaxed for anything else, his every movement languid in the aftermath of his last orgasm. The thick layer of scent in the room has his head swimming, and his body is as post-coital as it's ever been. But that doesn't stop the pleasure from trickling through him at every ghosting touch, every lip-parting moment of sensual delight he sees reflected in Stiles' face.

He'd been willing to pay Stiles fifty thousand dollars for this — is still determined to find a way to do so without pissing him off, really — and he's beginning to think he should have offered more. Every part of the evening has been so much _more_ than he's ever known before that he has no basis for comparison. 

Maybe it's that he doesn't feel the need to hide any part of himself from Stiles. Stiles knows the wolf that lives under Derek's skin, has seen every facet of it and remained unafraid. He unabashedly pokes and teases and edges under Derek's calm to rile him up on a good day, stands face to face with him in full fury on a bad one. Derek has never really had that before. Never had someone who'd sass him about ruined bed sheets or whose face went slack with awed discovery at the minute differences in his body. 

Now that he's experienced it, he doesn't know how he's supposed to be satisfied for this to end. The cold fear of that shakes his body awake more than anything else could. If all he's getting is this one night, if this… _thing_ with Stiles is limited to the condoms rapidly disappearing from the strip shoved in his headboard, Derek is going to make sure he savors every moment. 

Slitting his eyes open, he reaches for Stiles, pulls him down, presses Stiles' mouth to his throat. Stiles doesn't need any further urging; he sinks his teeth there, sucks and bites and licks until the whole area feels raw, electrified. When he's eased up enough to unlatch, Derek twists under him, offering the other side. Stiles moans into the skin, his long body stretching out over Derek's, coming down on top of him to writhe against him. 

Derek drags his palms down Stiles' back, soothing him and settling their bodies together at the same time. He doesn't want this to end too soon. Doesn't want to let go of Stiles, let him slip away. It's stupid and reckless; he knows he'll never survive without Stiles' friendship, but this thing that's building inside Derek, that's consuming him like living fire… He can't deny he needs it as well. 

He pushes those thoughts from his mind for now and indulges in the moment. The consequences of the night will come, whether he lets the shadow of them ruin this night or not. 

Pressing up into Stiles' undulating body, Derek spreads his thighs, catches Stiles' body between them. Angling his head down, he noses at Stiles' neck until Stiles turns toward him, face glimmering with sweat in the moonlight. Their lips brush together, part on a breath, a sigh of pleasure, and then they're opening to one another, tongues sliding against each other, everything slowed down and urgent at the same time. 

And still Stiles' hands are everywhere. Flitting over his arms, pressing into his chest, thumbing at his nipples and scratching along his ribs. He doesn't know where to turn, there's no guessing where Stiles' fingers will land next. Until they slide between Derek's legs, twitching and a little uncertain, lightly drawing circles over his inner thighs before sliding unerringly higher, pressing against his perineum, massaging and tickling there until Derek breaks their kiss, hiding a ragged groan in Stiles' neck.

"Flip over for me," Stiles murmurs against the top of his head. "I want to see."

It takes every bit of his remaining concentration to do so, but with Stiles' help, he rolls to his stomach, burying his head _under_ the pillow because somehow he knows this is going to be too much. He's going to lose his mind, or maybe just willingly hand it over to Stiles, gift wrapped for his pleasure. 

Derek's not even hard, doesn't think he _can_ be so soon. Not yet, anyway. But every drag of Stiles' skin over his makes him shudder, makes his skin come _alive_. The anticipation is so sweet, it's so tempting to just lift his ass and beg Stiles to fuck him now. _Right_ now, no prep or lube. 

He's a werewolf; he'll heal.

Stiles spreads his cheeks with those fingers, his thumbs rubbing over Derek's hole. A choked noise catches in his throat before bursting from him, and he rocks back into the pressure. He can hear Stiles' heartbeat stutter at that, can smell his arousal thicken. Opening his mouth, breathing through it, he rocks back again. 

Stiles mutters a curse and one hand disappears shortly before a stream of wetness hits the top of his ass and dribbles down. Though he knows better — it's not hot enough, not thick enough — for an instant he thinks Stiles has marked him with his scent and Derek growls his satisfaction at the thought. He _wants_ to be marked. _Wants_ to carry Stiles' scent on him. 

Fingers swipe through the lube on his ass and then Stiles is sliding into him. Just his fingers, just for now. But it doesn't seem to matter to Derek, who just moans for it, stretching his whole body back toward the push of Stiles' fingers. The stretch is glorious, heats him up from the inside until every last thought quiets in his head. He exists only as sensation now.

The minutes drag out, too long, and Derek doesn't bother stifling his noises of frustration. He's pushing into Stiles' grip, rocking them both on the bed, rocking the _bed_ itself. Finally Stiles stretches up and over him and Derek lets out a long, thankful sigh, but Stiles isn't _in_ him. He snarls lazily, but Stiles just pats his ass and mutters at him to be patient. 

"This damn thing is impossible to open," he says before, "Aha! Got it. Just… let me…"

And then he's sliding in, shaking with it. Or maybe Derek's shaking. Maybe they both are. But the stretch is unbelievable. It's been so long since Derek's done this. So long since he _let_ himself do this. 

Derek's fingers curl into the edges of the mattress, and he uses that hold to keep him from floating away as Stiles slides into him, long and slow, then pulls out. The tug is all sensation, all dragging flesh, and as Stiles retreats Derek feels so fucking _empty_ , down to his _soul_ empty. Before Stiles can shift forward again, Derek's pushing back, needing more, needing it now. His forcefulness earns him a grunt of surprise and a _fuck, god, you're so tight, feel so good._

The slow pace doesn't last. Stiles has been worked up much longer than Derek, and though he'd taken so long to learn Derek's body, he's still a virgin sinking into someone's ass for the first time. His thrusts stutter, he starts slamming his hips into Derek's, his cock shoving deep and gouging a path for itself.

Derek _loves_ it. He arches his back, tilts his head, offers his neck. He doesn't know if it's instinct or if Stiles just needs somewhere to muffle his shouts, but Stiles' teeth are there almost instantly, sinking in deep enough to break the skin as he thrusts one last time, his cock jerking in Derek's ass.

~*~

Derek wakes long hours later, doesn't really remember falling asleep. He takes a moment to stare at Stiles, watch the rise and fall of his chest. He drags his hand out from under his head and traces the outline of one of the marks he'd sucked into Stiles' hip until Stiles' nose twitches in irritation.

"Nnn, jus' a min more."

A smile quirking his lips, Derek rolls up to his elbow and leans over Stiles, blowing gently into his ear until Stiles bats at his face with one limp hand. 

"G'way."

"Hey, I'm going to run to the store. _Stay here_. I'm taking the Jeep." When that gets no response but a soft snore, Derek laughs and shuffles out of the bed, looking around for his clothes. Which is when he remembers all he wore was sweats.

Finding those, he drags them over his ass, nose wrinkling as he realizes he's a little filthy. Oh well. Then he roots around on the floor until he comes up with a tshirt. It's a little small, but nothing like the shirts he'd had to nearly wedge himself into so many years ago. Stiles has a pair of athletic sandals, which is good because apparently his feet are bigger than Derek's. 

He slips out the door and jogs down the stairs, snatching Stiles' keys on the way out. His first stop is his apartment, because he'd left the previous night without as much as locking his door behind him, which meant his wallet was still there as well. Thankfully the loft seems to have been undisturbed in the night, not that he really thought anyone would have broken in. That's the beauty of owning an empty apartment building and living on the top floor.

By the time he's taken a shower and changed clothes, it's late enough that the store is open. He's able to get everything he needs as well as a complimentary cup of fairly decent coffee. The day is looking up. 

Back at Stiles' house, he unloads the Jeep and gets to work. When the sheriff pulls up an hour later, Derek jerks and the hammer completely misses the nail he'd been about to pound in, denting the wooden two by four instead. Somehow it hadn't occurred to him to consider that Stiles' dad would actually come home _some_ time.

"Derek." The sheriff nods companionably, though his shrewd gaze is cataloging the state of the boards Derek had already ripped away from the porch steps. 

"Uh. Good morning. Sir." Derek drags a sweaty hand down his thigh, eyes dropping to the nail that's still protruding from the wood, mocking him as the sun glints off it.

"Kanima?"

Blinking, Derek looks up with a frown of confusion before he realizes the sheriff is asking what attacked his house. "Oh. No, sir. Unicorn."

" _Unicorn_?" The sheriff squints at him, rolls his shoulders as he's thinking, then huffs out a breath. "When the hell did my life go from _Dennis the Menace_ to _Harry Potter_?" Shaking his head, he edges around Derek and takes the overlong step up onto the porch, bypassing the step Derek's working on. He opens the door to the house, then pauses, turning back to Derek with another of those _analyzing_ looks. "Unicorn, huh? The 'attracted to virgins' kind?"

Derek's mouth goes so dry he's unable to form words. All he can do is nod once, slowly, never breaking eye contact with the man looming over him.

"And you took care of it. Of course you did." Pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, the sheriff mutters, "Jesus Christ. No wonder you look so goddamn happy." Then he shakes it off, turns back into the house, and Derek can clearly hear him say, "Well, at least I'm getting new porch steps out of it." The door slams shut behind him and Derek's about to finish hammering in this stupid nail when he hears the sheriff choke and yell at Stiles, "Open a goddamn window, son! It smells like a whorehouse in here."

The squawk and thump that follows doesn't _actually_ make Derek feel any better, though he can't help the smile that stretches across his face.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for how late this is going up. I wasn't happy with the last half of the chapter, so I completely rewrote it. It's much better now. :D

Derek winces as his fork stabs through his chicken, scraping along his plate with the unholy screech of metal over china. _Good_ china, because the sheriff had insisted with a sharp look while informing Derek he was staying for dinner. 

Not asking. _Informing._

Derek keeps expecting an interrogation, but apparently the sheriff's content to let Derek and Stiles stew in silence while he enjoys his chicken marsala. Not that there's much silence to stew in. Stiles is happily chattering away about some project he's just finished working on for school in between bites of his meal. He's started on his second helping already while Derek's still trying to choke down his first.

What the hell is the etiquette here? No one else is acknowledging the elephant in the room, so if Derek breaks and starts gibbering about it now, he'll just look like an idiot. A bigger idiot. But Derek is fully aware that if he tries to simply finish his meal and leave with a word of thanks, that won't fly either. He's damned either way.

Stiles waves his fork around, explaining something, and his scent wafts toward Derek, making him stiffen all over. _All_ over. Though he's well aware Stiles had showered earlier, he still smells like _them_ , a combination of their scents, and it's driving Derek the slightest bit crazy. He wants to lean over, right at the dinner table, and put his face in Stiles' lap. Wants to breathe that scent in where it'll still be strongest. Wants to bend Stiles over the table and eat _him_ instead of this chicken.

Without warning, Derek's fork drops with a clatter to the ground, scattering a forkful of food all over the tile. He jerks his head up from where he's been staring down at it in horror and feels his face flood with color before he's able to mutter, "Sorry. I'll clean that up."

"Hey, dude, no problem. I'll get you a clean fork. Just like, toss that on a napkin or something." Stiles scrapes his chair back, bopping up from the table with an energy that astounds Derek… and makes him think he was _too_ gentle last night.

"So." 

The sheriff's voice stops Derek in his tracks, where he's bent over in his chair trying to sweep up the food with his napkin. Lifting his head slowly, Derek looks across the table at Stiles' dad, who's looking back at him calmly. "Uh. Yes? Sir."

"Do we need to have a discussion?"

"Nope!" Stiles says, darting back into the room with a new fork and slamming it onto the table. He glares at his father and says, each word pointed and flat, "No discussion necessary. You know why?"

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me," the sheriff says, stacking his hands on his belly as he sits back with a sigh, as if mourning his lost opportunity to tear a few strips off Derek.

"First of all, we don't need to have a discussion because I am a goddamn adult." Pointing at himself, he says, "Twenty, remember? Second, _Derek_ is a goddamn adult. Like, I dunno, forty or something. How old _are_ you, anyway?" 

Glaring at Stiles, Derek growls, "Gee, I dunno, _Stiles_. I seem to recall a surprise party involving half the town about six months ago—"

"Cheer up, buttercup. I was messing with you." Stiles flutters his eyelashes at Derek before turning back to his dad. "He's twenty six. Adults. Both of us. And granted, I'm still living at home while I go to BHU, but—"

"I have no idea what this has to do with the unicorn that apparently attacked the house last night, but do go on. I'm breathless with anticipation." The sheriff's voice is flat, dry, but the sparkle in his eyes is a dead give away.

Stiles tosses his napkin at his father, muttering, "Fucker," under his breath. 

"Look," the sheriff says, letting out the chuckle he's obviously been holding back for a while. "I'm glad the two of you finally got your shit together, but I'm more concerned about the unicorn. I'm going to assume that the property destruction bit means it's not the sweet, fluffy thing we're supposed to believe it is, right?"

Derek nods, then shrugs. "I wouldn't worry too much about it," he says, trying for calm. "We took care of it."

"Yeah? Then mind telling me why there's a deformed horse taking a shit in my backyard?" the sheriff asks, pointing out the window behind Derek's back with his fork.

Whipping around, Derek ignores his chair clattering to the floor as he drops his claws and takes up a protective stance in front of Stiles, who's leaping out of his chair with a speed to rival Derek's.

"What the fuck?!" Stiles yells, sounding more angry than scared. "Stop stalking me, you fucker!" he shouts.

"Get upstairs." Derek's voice is distorted by his fangs, but Stiles seems to understand him well enough, backing away quickly before Derek hears the thump of his feet running down the hall and then pounding hollowly up the stairs. 

The unicorn seems to be far more placid than it was the previous evening, judging by how it's grazing on the dandelions that have shot up in the overgrown backyard. But Derek is well aware of how quickly that can change. Edging toward the French doors that open onto the back patio, he rattles the knob to see what will happen. 

Lifting its head with a snort, the unicorn locks eyes with him and screams before rearing up on its hind legs. Cursing, Derek yanks the doors open, rushing through them to meet the unicorn head on.

But the sound of an upstairs window slamming open stops them both, distracting the unicorn before it can charge. "You stupid, brainless animal!" Stiles shouts. "You're not playing by the rules, you bastard. Look! Do you see this? I'm not," he throws something, "a virgin," the unicorn makes a pained sound as whatever Stiles threw hits it, "anymore!" As he finishes shouting, Stiles throws something else, and this time it hits the unicorn's horn, tearing the… 

Derek squints, unable to believe what his eyes are seeing. He knows it's stupid — never take your eyes off the monster — but Derek can't help dropping his head into his hands with a groan of disgust. "Really, Stiles?" he calls, twisting to glare up at Stiles, whose head is still poking out the window. 

Grinning, Stiles leans further out the window so Derek can see him shrugging. "Hey, I thought maybe it was back for proof. But you'd better watch out. Apparently used condom bombs are his weakness. He looks a little pissed." At Stiles' gesture, Derek turns back to see that the unicorn is staggering around, dazed and hurt, though it's getting closer to Derek with every stumbling step.

"Jesus, son," the sheriff mutters, coming up beside Derek and raising his arm. His service revolver is held steady in his hand, and he squints down the sight before saying, "Any reason we need to keep it alive?"

"Not that I can think of." Derek watches, feeling the smallest bit guilty, as the sheriff squeezes the trigger and shoots the unicorn through the eye. It falls to the ground, instantly dead. Derek can only blink in shock because _how_. They'd tried _everything_ to kill this animal, and nothing had worked. A single bullet, though?

"Wolfsbane rounds," the sheriff grunts like he's answering Derek's unspoken question. He calmly flips open his revolver and removes the remaining bullets. "Figured if they worked on one set of supernatural creatures, might work on this one." Twisting to look up at Stiles, who's staring at the unicorn with his hand over his mouth, the sheriff yells, "You're cleaning up those condoms, kid. And the yard needs mowing tomorrow, too."

Clapping Derek on the back, he adds in a quieter voice, "Call Scott for cleanup while we grab a beer."

~*~

"Sneaking out?"

Derek doesn't jump, but it's a close thing. He turns to see Stiles seated on the front porch swing, legs tucked up beneath him and a glass of water in his hand. "You weren't inside."

"Nah, figured it'd be a safer bet to wait for you out here so you couldn't duck and run." Stiles' lips twitch, but the humor doesn't reach his eyes. 

Derek holds his hand up, showing off his keyfob. "I could still make a break for it."

"Not without your spark plugs." Before Derek can do more than freeze in panic for his car, Stiles laughs and says, "Gotcha. But seriously, have a seat. We need to talk."

"Is it really a _need_?" Derek mutters, easing onto the porch railing as he studiously avoids Stiles' gaze.

"Yeah. It really is, because I know you well enough to know that if I let you leave now, you're going to go back to your loft and drown yourself in doubts until you talk yourself into either moving out of town in the dead of night or just digging in and refusing to budge again. Both options are stupid and pointless, because you know very well I'll come find you in either case. So. Talking. We're doing it."

Derek restlessly scrapes the ragged edge of a fingernail over his jeans, staring at a spot of dirt that's smudged across Stiles' knee. He still smells faintly of the two of them, and Derek's concentration is already shot, which is a dangerous thing with Stiles around. "Fine, then," he eventually says when the silence has dragged out painfully. "You start."

Instead of speaking, Stiles reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that he throws to Derek. As it sails across the air between them, it opens up and he sees that it's the strip of condoms. Catching them out of the air, he stares at them in shock before hurriedly folding them up and sliding them into his own pocket. As he does so, his stomach sinks. "I guess that's a no, then," he says, not meeting Stiles' eyes.

"It's a 'I bought those for you to use, and no matter what, they're yours so you should keep them.' If you think I'm turning you down for eight more rounds on the pony express, you were obviously not in the same bed I was in last night. I might need to check myself into a clinic for sex addiction after that." Stiles shoves the swing in motion and points a finger at him, the glass slipping a little as he does so. "You are _really_ good at that shit, dude." 

Derek feels his ears burning and just stands there silently. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? "I still don't want to use them with anyone else," is what finally comes out.

"Awesome."

Glancing up, he sees that Stiles is grinning from ear to ear and literally patting himself on the back. He rolls his eyes and steps forward, kicking the swing a little harder so Stiles yelps and has to grab onto it, spilling his water all over himself. "Was that a good enough talk for you?" 

"Yeah, asshole. Go home and put on some death metal while you do sit ups to the sound of your man pain or whatever. Shit, I have to go change clothes now." Stiles is swearing under his breath, trying to blot the water off his pants and just making it worse.

"Stiles?"

"What?"

Derek backs away toward the new steps. "Now that the unicorn is dealt with and your project's finished, there's not a lot to do. Feel free to come over if you get bored." He pats his pocket pointedly before jumping from the porch straight to the ground.

"Come over? Was that a bad pun, dork face? _Come_ over?" When Derek doesn't answer, Stiles leans over the porch railing and yells, "You bet your sweet ass I'll be there. Get your rest, old man. Take your vitamins!"

Derek just laughs as he starts the Camaro and pulls away from the curb. He has no idea what the hell he sees in that kid, honestly.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have warned you all that this was the end, but I didn't realize it was going to be until I was halfway through the first go of writing it, hated what I was writing, started over, and realized I was writing an epilogue. SO! 
> 
> This is it, guys. The end. :(

Derek stares at the diagram before muttering a curse under his breath and balling it up to toss the useless paper over his shoulder. He _knew_ he should have bought the bed from an actual furniture store, but Stiles had insisted that a bed from Ikea would work for the two years he'd be at CalTech.

"'It's not like I'm bringing it back to Beacon Hills when I graduate, Derek,'" Derek mocks in a high pitched tone as he puts two pieces of cheap pressboard at right angles and screws them together with his power drill. "'Besides,'" he continues his one-sided reprisal of Stiles' portion of their earlier conversation, "'anything bigger than a twin is a bonus.'"

He shoots a glare at the pieces of broken lumber they'd kicked out of the way after dragging in the box containing the new bed frame. A full size, of course, because they've learned their lesson about twin beds and their ability to withstand vigorous fucking. 

Teeth sinking into his bicep has him looking down at Stiles with a raised eyebrow. Stiles just shrugs up at him, mouth still latched to Derek's arm before saying, his voice muffled and slurred, "It's your fault. You were being all _handyman_ and competent and my brain turned it into porn. I needed to get you in my mouth."

"You _had_ me in your mouth," Derek growls, shoving at Stiles' forehead until he backs off, smacking his lips and rubbing his belly. "That's what got us in this mess to begin with."

"Yeah, no, I kinda think me blowing you had very little to do with this," Stiles says, gesturing at the sad remains of the bed that had originally come with his new dorm room. "I'm pretty sure this happened after you went all cave man on me and tried to fuck me through the mattress."

"I object to your use of the word mattress. If there isn't at least an inch of padding, it can't possibly be termed a mattress."

"Well, _I_ object to your use of pitch when mocking me. I do _not_ sound like this," Stiles stresses his vocal chords trying to hit the higher notes Derek was using before. At Derek's challenging stare, Stiles flushes and kicks at him, missing by a mile and scattering the various nuts and bolts that had come with the new bed all over the place. "Fine, I don't sound like that unless your dick is in me."

Derek smirks smugly down at the wood in his hands — ignoring all the jokes Stiles would have been making at the mental combination of the words 'wood in hands' — and goes back to putting the new bed together. When he's finished, there are a worrying number of bolts left over, but he used all the nuts and had to scavenge one off the old, broken bed frame just to complete it. Standing, he gathers the odds and ends and throws them all in a box before he shakes the frame with one hand and says, "I think we need to test it. Make sure it's sturdy enough."

Stiles' arms wind around his waist and his chin digs into Derek's shoulder as he looks over it to study the bed Derek built. "Mmm, I think you might be right. When's the mattress supposed to be delivered?"

"Between noon and five."

"Well, it's six til five now, so hey, they'll be here any minute, right?"

Derek snorts before peeling Stiles' arms from him long enough to turn around in the circle of them. "I'll be surprised if they're here by five _tomorrow_."

"Aww, there's the pessimist we all know and love," Stiles gushes, pinching the cheeks of Derek's ass and using that hold to pull their bodies flush against one another. "I still have the twin-sized mattress pad thing that came with the room." He waggles his eyebrows and reaches into his pocket to pull out a strip of condoms. 

Derek doesn't have to count them to know that there are nine on the strip — the ten they always start with less the one they were using when the old bed broke. 

It's been a long six months since Stiles had shown up at his loft, dangling a strip of condoms and telling Derek he needed to get laid, but for all the awkward starts and stops and miscommunications, there's nothing Derek would change about any of it. Well, possibly the unicorn, but even the memory of that sends a wave of nostalgia through him. He still shies away from calling this a relationship, Stiles still makes sure to replace any condoms they use so they never run out of that original ten, and the rest of the pack has stopped watching them like a ticking time bomb. Their angry shouting matches no longer end in cold shoulders, which is good for everyone. 

Now they just end in angry sex. Followed by apology sex. Followed again by make up sex.

They have a _lot_ of sex. Stiles just laughs it all off as making up for lost time, and they go back to not talking about it because they're both allergic to deep and meaningful conversations. Not that they don't communicate, because they do, it's just done in roundabout ways that usually end up in sex.

Thinking about sex has Derek pulling Stiles closer, slotting their mouths together as he grinds his hips into Stiles'. A moan gets caught between their mouths, and Derek doesn't know if it originated from Stiles or him, and he doesn't really care. He's just getting into it, he's got Stiles' shirt rucked up around his ribs, is plucking meanly at the nubs of his nipples, when a knock at the door disturbs them.

Derek drops his head to Stiles' shoulder as Stiles laughs in his ear before pushing him away to go answer the door, tugging his shirt down in a highly ineffective attempt to cover up the erection pushing against the front of his jeans. The mattress delivery people are professional enough not to mention it — or the pieces of the dorm's old bed — but that might be because Derek tips them well before practically shoving them out the door.

When he turns back to the room, Stiles is there, tugging on his belt loops and wrestling him toward the new bed with its plastic-wrapped mattress. Hooking one foot behind Derek's ankle, Stiles flips him onto the bed and then follows him down. Landing with a grin, he props himself up on his elbows and says, "So. Should we test the Swedish engineering that brought us this masterpiece of craftsmanship?"

"Since I refuse to allow you anywhere near power tools, yes. You know. Just in case we need to go buy you _yet another_ new bed." 

Stiles laughs and starts tugging off his clothes, prompting Derek to do the same, until they're lying there with heavy-duty plastic sticking to them and Stiles' hips slotted between Derek's thighs. Stiles' fingers slide through the thick hair on Derek's chest even as he sucks his way up Derek's throat to lock their mouths together again. 

Derek, in a way that's become sadly predictable, is already fully hard, canting his hips up to urge Stiles to move things along. He wants those fingers in his _ass_ , not his chest hair, no matter how much Stiles seems to love petting through it. He wants Stiles' dick in his ass even more, but the downside of werewolf healing is they have to stretch him slow and steady _every single time_ , which is enough to drive Derek straight out of his mind.

But for some reason, Stiles is going slow tonight. Maybe it's because he knows they only have another two days together before Derek makes the trip back to Beacon Hills — not that Derek isn't planning to spend most of his weekends in Pasadena. Or maybe it's because he's an asshole. No matter the reason, Derek growls and thrusts up, hands grabbing onto Stiles' ass and tugging, pulling him closer, trying to get him in position before Derek is even ready.

Stiles just laughs again, scraping his teeth along Derek's jaw and biting every few inches. Arching his back, Derek tips his chin up, baring his throat to Stiles, who accepts the offer of the long stretch of clean skin and starts marking _it_ up… only to attack it again when the marks quickly fade. 

"It's funny," Stiles says, sinking his teeth into the pulse that beats strongly in Derek's neck before pulling back, stretching the skin and making Derek keen loudly. "I was doing some research on the bioengineering firm that gave me my scholarship."

Derek hears the words but doesn't register them for a long minute, and when they penetrate the fog of lust that's filled his head, he can't stop himself from stiffening in alarm. Fuck. 

Stiles hums, trailing his mouth down to place his ear over Derek's heart. "It seems they're based in South America. Argentina, to be precise." 

Derek winces when his heart skips a beat, betraying him.

Kissing his way down Derek's stomach, Stiles hovers over the tip of his dick, giving it the occasional kitten lick before he looks up at Derek through his eyelashes — and _fuck_ , he _knows_ what that does to Derek. "Are you still sending money to Cora every month?"

Derek would answer, but Stiles chooses that moment to dig the tip of his tongue under Derek's foreskin and he has no breath for anything other than a punched-out noise of pure pleasure. It's so good it _hurts_. 

Apparently Stiles doesn't need an answer, because he collects the precome that's dribbling out of Derek's slit on his tongue and runs it along his lips, getting them all shiny and sticky. "Of course you are," Stiles says then, winking at Derek. "Good big brother that you are." He looks down, sliding his hand between Derek's thighs and rubbing over the grasping furl of his hole. "Where's her pack located again?" He presses firmly, then looks up at Derek, just holding there. Not breaching, not retreating.

_Busted._

Derek makes a gurgling sound before clearing his throat to say, "Uh. Argentina. She's in Argentina."

"Oh, Derek. What am I going to do with you, hmm? You've been very..." He pushes his finger in, and Derek's just grateful that he lubed it up at some point. And then he stops being grateful because now Stiles is teasing him, edging right up close to his prostate before circling away. "Very naughty."

Derek thinks about throwing his sister under the bus, but then bites the bullet and gasps, "Are you angry?"

Another finger edges in beside the first as Stiles shrugs, lips twisting. "I was. I'm over it. It helps that you didn't try to deny it." And then he looks up at Derek like he knows Derek was thinking about it. "Plus," he says, twisting his fingers until Derek's breath breaks on a moan, "I know you just can't help it. You and your white knight syndrome. It would have eaten you up until you fixed it, even if it didn't really need fixing." He _tsks_ , but the sound is filled with humor.

"What would you have done?" Derek can't help asking, because even though his body is attuned to everything Stiles is doing to it, he knows this is important.

Stiles slips his fingers free, rustling at something beside Derek's hip — ahh, the lube — even as he locks eyes with Derek. "What do you mean?"

"If our positions were reversed. What would you have done?"

"Probably the same thing you did. But…" Three lube covered fingers plunge into Derek then, unerringly hitting and then massaging his prostate firmly as Stiles returns to licking at his cock. With a devilish smirk, Stiles murmurs, "I wouldn't have gotten caught." 

Something occurs to Derek then, and he can't help grinning, even as he's losing his breath to the overwhelming sensations Stiles is pulling from his body. "Hey, Stiles?" he gasps, writhing on the bed, trying to fuck down on Stiles' fingers even as he's fucking up into Stiles' mouth.

"Hmm?"

"In case I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight."

Stiles goes still, then lifts his head, pinning Derek with a look that's filled with two parts disbelief, one part chagrin. "You did not. You did _not_ just quote _Pretty Woman_ at me." 

Derek holds his breath for a minute, because sometimes thoughts he has while sex stupid are, well, stupid. And he doesn't want Stiles to get the wrong idea…

But then Stiles is laughing and smacking him on the thigh. "If _anyone_ is Julia Roberts in this relationship, it's me." Shaking his head, Stiles dips his head down, snorting another laugh before he takes Derek deep and then pulls off to mutter, his tone all affection, "Dork face."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot of stuff that got left on the cutting room floor in the last few bits of this fic. Conversations that would have completely changed the tone or just... didn't want to fucking end, you know? So here: Have the DVD extras! [Deleted first take of the front porch conversation from Chapter 9 ](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Z_-BO-ewg5Gqu_oCKgKn-wOF1nFT3CdQgIznZOXrJ-4/edit) and [Deleted Original Chapter 10 with bonus Scott!](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-0Rkb9s1Er15t164AOwIN-o_QR0W80okIw0ZE7OrkUk/edit)

**Author's Note:**

> And for those of you who subscribe to me (I love you all so much), apparently if you queue a fic in a fest collection on AO3, it doesn't send out notifications when the fic posts. Grr. So for anyone who might have missed it, my [TW Rare Pairs Exchange](http://twrarepairexchange.tumblr.com/) fic, [This Fucking Town](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2298269) (Cora/Lydia, mind the warnings) posted earlier today/yesterday for those on the other side of the planet.
> 
> As always, [I'm on tumblr.](http://eeyore9990.tumblr.com)


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